


Broken Angel

by SherLockedAt221B



Series: Depressing Sherlock Stuff [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Gun Violence, Hurt No Comfort, Poor John, Poor Sherlock, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 03:17:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13022115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherLockedAt221B/pseuds/SherLockedAt221B
Summary: Bang.A gunshot rings through the dark alleyway, ripping through the eerie silence. Time seems to go in slow motion, Sherlock sees the bullet coming towards him and he flinches back, expecting the bullet to hit him.It doesn’t.It flies straight past him. Just for a few short seconds Sherlock feels relief - the man must simply be a bad shot.But then it hits him with horrible force, harder than any gunshot could ever be. Just a millisecond later, he hears it - the thump of flesh and bone against solid ground.Spinning around, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest, he runs toward the figure on the ground with one word looping in his head again and again.John.-You can blame my nasty insomnia for this, I apologise in advance. I put the Graphic Depictions of Violence rating to be safe, not hugely graphic or anything.I decided to have a change from being mean to Sherlock, so I was mean to John instead.





	Broken Angel

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry in advance!  
> This is NOT edited and is something I dragged out at 3AM after a terrible bout of insomnia, so... yeah, don’t expect it to be all that good. I'm working on a (hopefully) not as depressing fic now.

"Hurry up, John! He's getting away!" Sherlock looks over his shoulder and beckons. His blogger, panting, puts on another spurt of speed that does not give him any gain on the consulting detective.

  
"It's all right for you!" John pants, going as fast as his really rather short legs will carry him. "You've got longer legs!"

  
Sherlock chooses to ignore this as he sees the shadowy figure up in front, their suspect, slow a little more. He is tiring.

  
The chase carries on down the alley, leaving Lestrade and his team in the dust far behind. Further along they run, past tall dark buildings and small side-alleys.

Their suspect is slowing even more, they will catch him soon if this keeps up.

  
It doesn’t.

  
Instead, the man stops dead, almost causing Sherlock to stop in his tracks from surprise.  
The man's silhouetted arm comes up, pointing back at his pursuers. Sherlock only has a split second to think as the man's arm levels, but a split second is not enough.

  
_Bang._

  
A gunshot rings through the dark alleyway, ripping through the eerie silence. Time seems to go in slow motion, Sherlock sees the bullet coming towards him and he flinches back, expecting the bullet to hit him.

  
It doesn’t.

  
It flies straight past him. Just for a few short seconds Sherlock feels relief - the man must simply be a bad shot.

  
But then it hits him with horrible force, harder than any gunshot could ever be. Just a millisecond later, he hears it - the thump of flesh and bone against solid ground.

  
Spinning around, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest, he runs toward the figure on the ground with one word looping in his head again and again.

  
_John._

  
He almost falls forward - completely forgetting the suspect behind him - in his haste to reach his friend, time going in slow motion as he runs.

  
After what seems like forever he falls to his knees onto the hard tarmac of the road and rolls John over, on to his back.

  
No. No, no, no. This was not happening. It simply was not happening.

  
Right in the centre of John's head is a hole, a horrible, gaping red hole that slowly oozes blood.

  
A small voice in his head - the same voice that makes all the little subconscious deductions - tells Sherlock all the useless information, all the horrible facts, all the things that prove that this is not some kind of horrible nightmare.

  
Hit in the amygdala. the voice tells him. Died instantly. Killer must be a very good shot - probably a trained assassin.

  
No. The voice is wrong. It is wrong, it just has to be, because nothing could ever happen to his blogger. Nothing.

  
Sherlock stares down at John, lying so still on the ground.

  
"This isn’t right." He suddenly says. He reaches down and shakes John's shoulders, trying to wake him up. Because that's all he's doing, right? This is all some kind of trick, yes? He will wake up in a moment and ask Sherlock why he hasn’t caught the suspect!

  
Yes, of course he will.

  
"Come on John, wake up!" Sherlock shakes a little more firmly as he hears the pounding footsteps of Lestrade and his team. The suspect will be long gone, anyway.

  
"Come on! You've got to wake up!" Sherlock shakes more. But somehow, through his clouded brain, he knows John won’t move again. He sees how unmoving his chest is, how pale his skin, and above all the trickle of red that has made it's way down the side of John's head.

  
The detective reels back suddenly as if stung and folds up into a surprisingly small space as it finally hits him. Really hits him.

  
John wouldn’t come back.

  
John was gone.

  
John was _dead_.

  
All Sherlock's emotional barriers that he spent years making and perfecting come crumbling down in an instant.

  
Sherlock has never felt like this before. Never.

  
He pulls himself into a dark corner, away from Joh- no, away from the body on the ground - and closes his eyes sending one single tear rolling down his face.

  
Lestrade and the other yarders come pelting around the corner, Lestrade at their head. He skids to a halt when he sees the body on the ground.

  
"Damn!" He shouts and Sherlock hears a few muffled noises. He doesn’t bother to figure out what they might be - what's the point? It was all broken.

  
A few moments later he feels a trembling hand on his back. No, it wasn’t the hand that was trembling, it was him. He opens his eyes and stares at the ground as blankly and emptily as he feels.

  
"Sherlock..." It seems that Lestrade is lost for words for once. But it didn’t matter. Everything was shattered into fragments so tiny you couldn’t find them with a microscope.  
Sherlock remained there, unmoving, for a long time. An ambulance arrived about ten minutes after the Yarders and took John away, but Sherlock never moved. He couldn’t bear to move, to see what had become of his army doctor again, because if he did he knew he would go completely mad.

  
His long coat flopped behind him like the wings of an angel.

  
Like the wings of a broken angel.

  
_Caring is not an advantage. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side._

 

_I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think for one second that I am one of them._

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos appreciated! Hope you liked it!


End file.
